the paths aren’t busy. City or field there’s plenty of room to stamp about. I cross a field in this corner of the Chilterns and my toe taps a horseshoe, buried for a lifetime, ruby red with rust. Moments ago I was sitting under the trees in the wood behind me, nibbling on a slice of cheese. Moments to go and I’ll be in the Swan garden, supping my first pub ale in a year or more. But here I am under the dazzling sun, feet in the earth, turning the iron relic over in my fingers. Do I want to come out here, to a hideaway in the sticks and learn these paths and byways? Is that something to aim for in life? Either way I can always visit. I leave the iron on a footpath post to spare the detectorists and pace on for the pub.